


What You Cannot Have

by orphan_account



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Background Relationships, Childhood Trauma, Emotionally Repressed Illya, Gaby can't understand why Illya is so cold, M/M, Napoleon gets angry, Napoleon is clueless, this is just depressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 09:37:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11643819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Illya confronts Napoleon about his promiscuity, but Illya's intentions are far different than Napoleon imagines. After their argument, Gaby gets to see a side of Illya that is completely emotionless, and the reasons why are more complicated than any of them can deal with.Alternatively: Illya's history with the topic of love have been less than stellar, and he struggles to accept that loving Napoleon would mean anything other than pain.





	What You Cannot Have

                “What the hell are you talking about, Peril?”

                “Forget I said it. You would not—”

                “Understand? That’s it, right? The almighty Russian, oh how much more he knows than us lesser beings!”

                “Napoleon,” Gaby tisks, the warning tone in her voice too blatant for Napoleon to ignore. He lowers his arms from where he threw them in exasperation, but the cold look of anger does not leave his face. When he speaks, he does not meet Illya’s eyes, and Illya does not look at him.

                “Listen to me: what I do in my free time is none of your business. Actually, nothing I do is your business. There’s this great thing called privacy, and I know it’s nonexistent back _home_ ,” Napoleon spits the word, “But it’s a real valuable thing in the States.”

                “I only think—” Illya begins, but he lets Napoleon cut him off. It is easier for Napoleon to have the last word, it always is.

                “You’re not thinking, that’s the issue. My particular talents have aided us on every mission. Are you willing to give that up? Are you willing to stop using something that _works_?”

Napoleon sighs and runs a hand through his hair. It parts in thick waves around his fingers. A few strands fall away from the rest and hang in a loose curl over his forehead. The tips brush his eyelashes, moving with the shifting of his gaze, the slow blinks Napoleon gives when he’s like… this. Unnerved, out of his element, surprised—an uncharacteristic attribute for Napoleon Solo. Normally so unflappable, it isn’t difficult to see his inability to handle emotions when they do arise. Granted, Illya has not seen this side of him often, but he has seen it. He is the only one who brings it out. Gaby is more fluid around Napoleon’s jagged edges. She knows the value of diplomacy, of soft words and light steps. Illya knows the value of the technique and how to implement it, but he also recognizes the merit in losing a finger rather than an entire arm.

If Napoleon could just be clear on this matter, it would spare countless future venom-laden words. He won’t though, and that’s just a fundamental truth of his personality. If Napoleon wants to hide something, he will bury it far from the prying eyes of those around him; friends, comrades, _lovers,_ be damned! Privacy indeed. Illya fights the desire to look at him, just to fuel the fire.

Napoleon gives up, seeing as how Illya has returned to his game of chess and Gaby to her book. He huffs and swipes his hair back into place. His steps echo for a bit as he storms off, expensive shoes against expensive marble. A door slams shut, and Illya sees Gaby flinch out of the corner of his eye. He scrutinizes the board in front of him, but the enjoyment of playing is gone.

“Good.”

“Hmm?”

“That was great. Really, that was the best confession of love I’ve ever seen.” Gaby lets the book fall to her lap. It lands on her bare thighs with a quiet _thump_.

“That? No.” Illya shakes his head. “No confession. I was prying.”

“Prying?” Gaby snorts. Illya does not need to see her face to know she rolled her eyes. “It seemed more like you were attacking his sexuality.”

“Prying.”

“You’re impossible!”

Gaby moves from her couch to the empty chair on the other side of the table. Illya does not look at her. Frowning, she stretches out her arm and swipes it across the chessboard. The pieces clatter to the ground, dull and hollow. Illya sighs.

“What?”

“Talk to him.”

“I would rather let them run their course.”

“Let what run their course? Can’t you give anyone a straight answer?”

“Feelings.” Illya answers. The word sounds strange in his mouth. Gaby stares at him, her comically large eyelashes enhancing her gaze that much more. She looks like a doll, a painted _matryoshka_ with moon eyes and red lips. Illya remembers that look from his childhood. It was not common then, and as marking of a woman as the word “whore” scrawled across her coat.

“Do you honestly think if you ignore your emotions they will go away, just like that?”

Gaby’s gaze breaks something inside him, and Illya stands, knocking the chair over in the haste of his movement. He glares down at her, noticing how her lips are parted in a small circle, how her eyes are filled with nothing less than incredulousness. She is truly surprised, and it hurts, deep, deep down, that she had somehow assumed Illya was anything more than the machine he was trained to be.

“That is how it always worked before.” Illya says.

“You can’t possibly believe that…” Gaby says, but it is more to assure herself than to try and counter the ice in Illya’s gaze. “Have you ever had sex?”

“When it was required.”

Gaby looks away, something like disgust manifesting in her movements.

“Have you ever loved anyone?”

Illya cannot answer that quickly. It takes time to think through all of the faces he remembers, the people he _could have_ loved, but that either faded from existence or whose passions cooled amidst the winter of Illya’s duty.

“No.” he finally says. Gaby keeps her chin tilted down, and if Illya is not mistaken, her bottom lip quivers slightly. Gaby is a tremor of pink splattered across a black backdrop, neon bright but undoubtedly fleeting. Illya would die for her if needed, and that is more than he could have said for anyone prior, but that isn’t love. Appreciation, maybe. Certainly respect. But Gaby cannot leave a mark, because a mark that fades would leave a scar. Illya cannot have scars. He cannot have love. The emotional chastity is what makes him a good agent, a well-oiled gear in the machine. He is no more than that and never has been.

“You did it on purpose, didn’t you?”

“What?”

“Provoking Napoleon like that. You wanted him angry at you, because that would make it easier for you to be callous to him.”

“Yes.”

“My god, Illya.” Gaby turns back to him, her eyes too glassy and voice a little too brittle. “How can you do that so easily?”

“Practice.”

Gaby stares, pity seeping through her dark eyes, and then stands. She picks up her book and retreats to her room. Her feet are bare and unlike Napoleon, she makes no sound when she leaves.

So Illya is alone, like many other times before.

He bends down to pick up the chess pieces. Gaby did a good job of scattering them. Some are under the table and some are under the window. The white king is lodged next to one of the couch legs, and Illya plucks it up gingerly. It is smooth in his hands, the shape familiar in a time Illya tries hard to forget. He used to play chess with his mother, when she was awake during the day. She was the one who taught him, not his father. He never had time, and his mother was a better player anyway. She always preferred white, and Illya never argued about being the black. He thinks, now, perhaps he should have.

\--

_Children are never blind._

_Illya knows why his mother’s eyeshadow has taken on a darker hue. She used to wear blue and silver; her eyes are smoke colored now, dark hollows up to her eyebrows. The shadows only shimmer sometimes. But he enjoys watching her put the makeup on. It is similar to painting._

_He stands in the doorway, neither leaning nor standing tall. She can see him, and that is the point._

_“Illya,” she calls, her lips ghostly pale before the lipstick. Ilya straightens._

_“Yes, mother?”_

_“I’m going out tonight.”_

_“Yes.”_

_She stills in the silence, and Ilya remains at the entrance to her room._

_“Come here, Illya.”_

_He does. He pauses to her right, towering over her in his newfound height. She looks up at him, incomplete without the face paint._

_“What do you think?”_

_“You look nice, mother.”_

_“You think so?” she laughs. The sound is broken, a scream that has been distorted and rearranged. She chokes it down and tries to smile. “Do you want me to do yours?”_

_“Mine?” Illya asks, squinting down at the colored boxes and bottles of cream on his mother’s dresser. The smell of powder hangs thick in the air, falsely floral._

_“I see you watching me. Makeup is an art, Illya. Let me practice on you.”_

_“I… alright.”_

_“Sit down, you’re much too tall for me now.”_

_She tips Illya’s head back, two fingers on his jaw, analyzing him. She furrows her brow, the thin lines colliding above the caverns of her eyes. Her lips are bloodless, and she purses them. She nods, slightly, and selects a bottle from the table. The cream is light and she rubs it in her hands before smearing in on Illya’s cheeks. It’s heavier than lotion and it feels confining. Illya doesn’t argue. He watches his mother pour over her selection before pulling another bottle and a palette. She swipes color onto Illya’s cheeks and rubs it with her fingers. She brushes his lashes with a tiny brush and dabs some of her silver in the crease of his eyelids. She opens three lipsticks and flicks her gaze from each to Illya’s face. She smiles at one and returns the others to their spots._

_“Smile for me, will you?”_

_Illya does. She runs the lipstick over his lips, making little upticks to define the points of his upper lip. She sits back to appraise him._

_“Stand up, let’s see how you look.”_

_Illya stares into the mirror. There’s something wrong about the face glaring back at him, something that seems too safe under the mask his mother so expertly wears._

_“I don’t like it.” Illya says._

_“That’s good. I don’t want you wearing it.” His mother declares. She shifts to look at her own reflection. “It’s too easy to hide behind makeup, Illya. I can just do this—” she swipes a fire-red lipstick over her lips in adept strokes. “And I feel like smiling all night.”_

_“What is wrong with that?”_

_In the mirror, Illya’s mother shakes her head._

_“Because all I really want to do is cry.”_

\--

The white king presses into Illya’s palm. He looks around the hotel room, realizing where he is. He shakes his head and opens his hand, the indentations of the chess piece red against his pale skin.

Makeup is not the only way to hide feelings. Anger works well, as does apathy. Violence turns people away. Coldness makes them run.

Is he in love with Napoleon Solo? It doesn’t matter. Illya has been in love countless times. Once with a breadmaker’s daughter, once with her older sister. He has been in love with a gypsy woman and his commanding officer, the one who sang to boost morale. Both died right before him, the gypsy woman from trying to escape the clutches of KGB agents. His commanding officer was shot through the throat by a German. It was sickly fitting.

So is he in love with Napoleon Solo? Yes, he can say that.

But love means nothing more than pain, time after time. It is nothing to be excited about, and certainly nothing to pursue.

Illya carries the white king back to the chessboard. He begins a new game and tries not to think about how he never saw his mother cry.  
---  
  
**Author's Note:**

> Well, I love this fandom, and I thought I needed to write something for it. This turned out extremely dark and depressing, but it is kind of fitting and a version of Illya that I feel is often under-developed. I tried to stay in character as much as possible, but to be honest I haven't seen the movie in a while (oops). I'll have to watch it soon!


End file.
